


End of the Line

by LoveAllTheFandoms



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode: s08e22 Everybody Dies, Gen, Sick!Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2487953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveAllTheFandoms/pseuds/LoveAllTheFandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson and House head to the Santa Monica Pier for a bucket list item but things don’t go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End of the Line

**Author's Note:**

> A bit OOC, impending death of major character, near death experience, spoilers for season 8 and “Everybody Dies,” some mild swearing, the use of prescription drugs for something other than their intended use, and because it deals with late stage cancer which is a bit intense.

From the day he was first diagnosed up until…well, today (minus the bit when we went completely insane and put Wilson through chemo hell in my apartment), Wilson never seemed all that sick. The last month or so, he’s had a few digestive issues, and trouble swallowing. Additionally, my friend has been coughing almost constantly but I managed to convince myself his problems amounted to nothing more serious than a bad cold. Maybe pneumonia. This afternoon’s events have successfully shaken away every last shred of denial I’ve been clinging to since we left Princeton. No longer can I believe some idiot screwed up his test results. I can’t pretend Wilson’s “tumor” was nothing but a speck of dust or infectious sack on the MRI. Now we know for sure. We’re marching towards the end days. 

It started with us standing on the Santa Monica Pier, eating popcorn and cotton candy, watching stupid people pay good money to throw blunt darts at under filled balloons, while seemingly unattended, screeching children ran around in large circles. The sky was a cartoonish shade of blue, dotted here and there with picturesque, fluffy white clouds. The temperature was exactly 74̊, and there did not seem to be a single foul odor in the air. Despite Wilson’s declining health—which so far he’d been able to hide from me—it was a perfect day. Even the screaming didn’t bother me. 

“I didn’t walk all the way from the car on my crappy, gimp leg so you could chicken out and drag me back to the hotel early. For crying out loud, Jimmy; the rollercoaster was your idea!” I complained. 

“It looked a lot less terrifying on the internet,” he replied, stealing the popcorn bag from my hand. “And if your leg is hurting, I can give you some of my meds. They’ll knock you on your ass; in a good way.” 

“I can’t steal drugs from a dying man. Once you’re gone and don’t need them anymore, then it’s a whole other story,” I taunted, nabbing the last of his cotton candy and smacking my jaw in front of him childishly. 

“You aren’t stealing; I’m giving it to you. And I won’t run out. We have enough Fentanyl patches to last two years. Two years if I take double the recommended dose,” Wilson explained, and threw a small handful of popcorn in my face. 

“I still can’t figure out what you’re so afraid of,” I moaned, staring at what seemed like twenty miles of rickety wooden bridge between us and the street. “You have, maybe four more items left on your bucket list after conquering this beast. Besides, dying after being thrown from a rollercoaster would be faster and significantly less painful than slowly rotting from the inside out. Wilson had a mouthful of popcorn so he couldn’t speak, but he gave me a look suggesting he had a very good counter argument. “Oh shut up!” I declared before he could swallow. 

Suddenly, Jimmy started to make these tiny, breathless gasping noises. I’ve only ever witnessed somebody choking once before today. It’s not quite as dramatic as it is portrayed in the movies, but having come close to the experience myself, I can tell you it feels just as horrific as the actors make it out to be. I stared, paralyzed in horror as my best friend’s lips started to turn blue. 

He tried punching himself in the gut, futilely. “Jesus, Jimmy I didn’t mean permanently!” I grabbed Wilson, pulled him to me tight, and thrust my fist directly into his abdomen. A paste-like chunk of half-chewed popcorn [and spit] flew from his mouth, landing on the ground. Moments later, he was standing over a trashcan, vomiting. 

“Sorry,” he whimpered, as I all but carried him back to the car. We had to sell the motorcycles last week because he was complaining about bugs in his teeth and wanting air conditioning. Now, however, I suspect he was suffering from weakness, and possibly issues with coordination. “You’re taking a patch, if I have to pin you down and stick it between your shoulder blades.” I agreed, but more out of a psychological necessity than a physical one. Watching Wilson almost die—and not for the first time—has really thrown me for a loop. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been having trouble with solid foods?” I shouted. Wilson shrugged his shoulder. “Damn it, Jim; I’m a doctor, not a mind reader.” He nodded the faintest smile ghosting across his lips. “I can’t help if you’re hiding your symptoms from me.” 

“Forgive me for wanting some damn privacy.” I dropped him into the passenger seat and limped across to the other side of the car.

“In case you’ve forgotten, I actually have a good idea how scary and painful it is to be a weak, pathetic, dying person. Granted my problems were short term, but in either case, I can only help you if you talk to me.” 

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to freak out,” he lied. I gave him the, 'are you actually trying to bullshit the bullshiter?' look. “I don’t want to eat baby food. And don’t pretend you can make my life easier by buying a food processor. I’m not drinking pizza smoothies either,” he insisted. 

“I’ll figure something out for the next couple weeks but you have to be way more careful. I’m only giving you the Heimlich two more times. Maximum.” 

“Believe me,” Wilson swore, “I am not going to need it again. The only thing worse than chocking to death is being dry humped by a cripple.” I gave him a playful punch in the arm, and we both smiled. Then, I drove back to the hotel. 

I’d like to say, ‘and we all lived happily ever after,’ but obviously real life doesn’t work like fairy tales. This is pretty much it.


End file.
